


Your heart is the only place that I call home

by iaimtomisbehave



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 21:56:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2126007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iaimtomisbehave/pseuds/iaimtomisbehave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is their thing.<br/>It has always been their thing; the thing they did together, and it reminded them of home away from home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My personal T&S Hogwarts headcanons. The ones I said I was not going to write. Ah, well.
> 
> A million thanks to: [iamconfounded](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iamconfounded/pseuds/iamconfounded), Al (aguacatito), artistryandathleticism and Gray (tessavirtueandmoir) for the enthusiasm and the gentle (and not so gentle) coercion, canyoufreakingjustnot for being a most excellent sounding board, [icevirtuemoir](http://archiveofourown.org/users/icevirtuemoir/pseuds/icevirtuemoir) for helping me work out the time frame and the great suggestions, all the beautiful Anons and non-Anons on Tumblr with their brilliant ideas and kind words, to my Scoobie Gang for title brainstorming with me and for making me laugh until I cry ("SEVEN!!"), and to [UnproperGrammar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/UnproperGrammar/pseuds/UnproperGrammar), for the metaphorical hand-holding, the inspiration and for being the most fabulous beta.  
> It's all your fault if I wrote this, so I dedicate it to you all. 
> 
> (title is from Heartlines, by Florence + The Machine)

This is their thing.

It has always been their thing; the thing they did together, and it reminded them of home away from home.

Ever since that day in May when he found out he could make water freeze just by willing it and, like the jackass he is, was caught freezing a nearby brook behind the neighbour's massive villa.

He was nine and it was exhilarating.

He just had to touch the water and...there it was; perfect white ice, two inches thick. He had started with glasses of water, then upgraded to the dog's water bowl, and then the bathroom sink.

He got cocky with the stream, he’ll admit it.

When he had tried to walk on the frozen surface he just created, he slipped and fell flat on his back.

And when he looked up at the sky, _she_ was standing there, looking down at him.

She was seven, wearing a pink frock, and, she explained rather importantly, the brook belonged to her family.

_“Today is my birthday. My name’s Tessa; what’s yours?”  
_

He was paralyzed for a second, but she didn't find it weird. Not that he trespassed and not that he could freeze running water.

She just stared at him with a serious expression and after careful consideration, she shyly asked a very sensible question: _“What are you going to do with all that ice in the middle of spring?”_

So he ran back to his house and brought out his hockey skates and a pair for her, borrowed from his cousin Leanne.

_“Here Tessa, this is how you skate. Just hold my hand; I won't let you fall, I promise…”_

And he didn’t and she just took to it like she had been waiting to skate all her life, trusting and unafraid. She was quiet at first, but after a few days she was letting out the biggest belly laugh he had ever heard. After a month, she told him she liked his _spiky hair_.

After that, she just stopped being shy around him.  
  
They spent all of their summers and all of their free time like this, on the ice he would create without effort, and she never questioned it or marvelled at it. Year after year, they just held hands, tumbled a lot, bruised a lot, and laughed a lot.

Until one day when he had just turned eleven. The neighbours from the big villa by the brook came to visit his mum and asked to see him as well.  
  
Her mom was very elegant and her dad smiled kindly.

Tessa was there too, with her freshly cut bangs and pale green dress. She sat next to him on the couch, bony knees barely touching his.

Over coffee, her parents explained to his bewildered mum and dad what their young daughter told them, what they thought Scott was, what invitation he was about to receive, and what an _amazing_ opportunity he will have been given.  
  
They told the puzzled Moirs not to worry about money or anything; the community is very strong so the boy won't need for a thing. Their daughter Jordan will help him as he settles in; _‘She's at school right now, 3rd year already; would you believe it? And she loves it!'_  
  
 _Boarding school_ , he remember thinking, _they are sending me away! Have I done something wrong, Momma?_  
  
That made his mom cry.

They explained to him that he was not being punished, that it was a great adventure, and next year Tessa would be there as well. They will learn a lot more than just to make ice, _and wouldn't that be fun?_

He's _horrified_.  
  
Tessa's heart broke as she looked at him worry and frown, but she didn't know why. So she smiled at him and held his hand, and whispered, _“Hold on for just one year! I'll be there soon.”_  
  
In August, he went through his first Floo Powder trip. In a moment he was in another country, fighting the urge to hurl in a corner. That was...something. Then there was his first shopping trip to Diagon Alley; his first wand and his first journey on a real steam train.  
  
He loved the train the most.

The Virtues walked him through every single step, never leaving him alone, answering his questions, and steering him in the right shops. Tessa kept holding his hand until the very moment he had to step on the metal ladder of the red locomotive.  
  
As he left King’s Cross Station, she ran along the platform waving goodbye until the train disappeared out of sight.  
  
Jordan kept repeating _“How adorable!”_ the whole six hour long journey to the school.

Jordan, true to her parents' word, didn't mind having him around and she helped him a lot with figuring out timetables, names, Houses, _moving staircases_ and _talking paintings_ and the _headmistress transforms into a cat, what?_

But she had a bit of mischievous streak and he was _kinda_ scared of her.

She got him into a headlock a lot and ruffled his hair. She called him 'lion cub' out loud and he suspects he was the butt of her friends jokes because he was the shortest kid in his year.

So he thanked her for all her help and he steered clear of her as much as he could (they were both Gryffindors, but she was a _grown girl_ and he was a _little boy_ , so she kept an eye on him but otherwise left him to wreck havoc as he saw fit. She did make him promise he wouldn't break his neck doing something stupid. He grinned like a maniac at that, and she walked away mumbling _“How I am going to keep them out of trouble once Tessa gets here?”_ )  
  
He soon discovered (in the _Standard Books of Spells Grade 1-6_ ) that what he instinctively could do with the ice had a name and a spell in Latin, and he could control it much better with a wand. He found a nice spot on the lake, around that bend, so they couldn’t be seen from the Castle, it's not too windy and the slope to the water is gentle and grassy.  
  
He practised and practised until it was perfect.  
  
When Tessa got to Hogwarts for her first year, he had to watch in horror as she was sorted in a different house. _Slytherin_! Their dormitory was miles from his tower!  
He had plans for them to sneak out at all hours and now she would be _alone_ in the _dungeons_.

The very next day he had to drag her away after breakfast.

He almost made her late for her first lesson because he _needed_ to show her their spot, he _needed_ to show her _immediately_.

She needed to know they had a safe place.  
  
Standing on the lake bank, he dusted off his hands uttering _“Ta-daa!”_ under his breath, looking at the considerable portion of smooth frozen water with evident pride.

Tessa looked from the lake to him, her grin wide and bright, green eyes shining.

He did pretty well.

It was his birthday, of course, and she had a present in her satchel for him. She was going to wait until dinner time, but _oh well_ …

It was a new pair of skates. The blade was made of enchanted unbreakable black onyx and he whooped loudly while she laughed.  
  
This is how they spent their next 4 years together. All their Sundays and weekends, skating, dancing on the ice.

( _"Who needs to go back to Hogsmeade? Once is enough and the place is too crowded anyway…” "We'll give Chucky a list of stuff he needs to buy for everyone from Honeydukes." "Scooott, you can't use Charlie like that! he's not your errand boy! " "Oooh, I'm totally going to call him that from now on! But nonsense! Here, we'll even give him our pocket money upfront, how's that? He’d better remember to buy those Flume’s home made chocolates you like so much, or else...oh HEY ERRAND BOY! COME OVER HERE I NEED TO ASK YOU A FAVOUR! Chucky, don't you dare ignore me, don't make come over th-CHARLIE WHITE WHY ARE YOU RUNNING I HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING YET!"_ )

The giant squid swims lazily underneath them, always slightly confused by the change in temperature, but they suspect it just likes to keep an eye on them just in case the ice spell isn’t strong enough.  
  
Except it is because Scott's got this spell down to perfection and the ice is solid even in the warm autumn day. The school grounds are quiet and the light is golden and, as per usual of lately, there’s a bunch of Year 1 and Year 2 girls from different houses sitting on the grass a few yards from them.  
  
They had been discovered fairly soon, but there had been virtually no consequences. No one really _cared_. Professor Flitwick gave him an extra credit for creativity and mastery and several students asked to be taught how to stay upright on the ice, but mostly they were left to their own devices. Even the girls on the grassy bank mostly just sit there quietly, content to just huddle together and watch them skate.

Tessa swears she heard them squeal in delight once or twice and she isn't sure why.

Maybe it had something to do with what Jordan told her once, a couple of years ago before she left after her final exams, something about what they _looked like out there on the ice_ and Tessa felt slightly alarmed. They weren't doing anything wrong.  
  
 _“What do you mean Jor, what can we **possibly** look like?”_  
  
But Jordan sighed mysteriously, murmured something about how she wished Tessa could see it, and put Tessa's head in headlock, in her affectionate, boisterous, _I love you so much I could eat you up_ kind of way.  
  
It's a gorgeous early autumn day and it’s too hot to even wear her house scarf, but she’s wearing the dark green sweatshirt with the silver logo on the chest he likes so much. At first she used to skate in these beautiful dresses with billowing skirts, thick knitted tights, and exquisite expensive coats. He had touched reverently the beautiful fabrics and muttered something about how her mom was going to kill him if they ruined her wardrobe.

So he had started providing for her skating gear.

He was still doing it.

Soft t-shirts he had outgrown ( _“It's all these muscles T! Honestly, look I can't fit into my clothes any more..” “Are you sure it isn't your Butterbeer belly?” “…OUCH TESSA. OUCH!”_ ), long sleeved jumpers made of materials she can’t recognize, and hooded sweatshirts he didn’t even bother to wash (she sleeps in them, but he doesn’t need to know _that_ ).  
  
It’s more than enough, but he keeps presenting her with new items.

He seems to enjoy doing it.

Whatever he gives her, she wears it the very next time they go skating, and his face lights up like a Yule tree. (It’s never new stuff. It’s always _his_. Mostly, accurately, in shades of grey and green. This is not a coincidence.)  
  
Today's choice made him really happy and hyper. She thinks he’s this close to wagging his tail.  
  
He murmurs _glacius_ without breaking their stride and adds another layer of ice under their blades, making it fantastically smooth and even.

She can’t admit it, but she’s rather impressed with his skills. His skills in both making the ice and being on the ice, and she has so much fun, _always_.

They aren't just going round on the ice now. Now, they are _dancing_.

And he’s being all eager and show-offy this year, his grades are better, he's really trying to have a strong 6th year...  
  
It’s like he’s trying to... _impress_ her?  
  
She knew he could be great if he’d focus a little bit more, and well, he’s focusing for sure now, he’s focusing on _her_.  
  
All his attention, all his efforts, all energies are pinpointed on _her_ , and it’s kinda intense and frightening because he can be a little bit overwhelming and all that, but _dammit_ , she is _delighted_.  
  
She can’t tell him ( _yet_ ) but she is showing him; showing him in the way she grips his hand and they way she lets him hold her close ( _“I swear this is how you waltz, Tess, just lean into me, I won’t break,”_ ) and the way she stopped rolling her eyes at him.

(Well, most of the time. Almost, anyway.)  
  
She is looking at him now, _really_ looking at him, as they twirl on the ice, trying to see what Jordan saw.  
  
She is looking at him, straight in his eyes, up close, the way he cheekily grins down at her, hair flopping over his forehead.

He’s got gold flecks in his hazel eyes.  
  
She can't help but smile back at him, as they whizz past at top speed, their blades scraping the ice.  
  
She likes what she sees. She likes it a lot.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s almost Yuletide: the best time of the year.

The school grounds are covered in thick snow and fragrant wood pops in the crackling fireplaces. Girls keep ambushing him with mistletoe at every corner and he discovered there was such a thing as _too much_ Christmas spirit.  
  
 _('I swear to god Chucky, say HO HO HO one more time and I will shove your wand so far up yo- YOU DID NOT JUST DO IT AGAIN, YOU LITTLE SHIT, COME HERE!’)_  
  
He was _so_ ready to go home.  
  
Then one absolutely freezing morning Tessa meets him at the entrance of the Great Hall as he's going in for breakfast.  
  
 _"Apparently my family has decided to visit Jordan in Australia for the holidays. She’s studying the migratory habits of Antipodean Opaleye dragons or something like that and she's too busy to come home, so, well...I guess I'll be staying here then."_  
  
She tells him this almost nonchalantly; almost as if she didn’t care.  
  
He looks at her for a second before blurting an invitation to spend Christmas with his family. He knows his mom would be ecstatic to have her and there's always room for one more at the Moir's.  
  
Tessa smiles faintly at him, biting her lower lip, and grasps the wide sleeve of his black robe.  
  
He is momentarily sidetracked.  
  
 _"You are sweet, thank you, but I really need to study for my OWLs and I need all those books from the Library. I might just as well stay here at the Castle and enjoy the peace and quiet, you know. It’s not a big deal Scotty, really."_  
  
But he knows it is. He can see it in the way she refuses to look him in the eyes, finding the lining of his robe fascinating as she nibbles at her lips.  
  
Other students eye them as they rush to their tables, mumbling behind hands. Suddenly, as if she had just become aware of where they are standing, she drops her hand, then hugs him quickly and awkwardly, wishing him a good journey home, then hastily retreats to the Slytherin table.  
  
Well.  
  
There's only one thing he can do, really.  
  
First, he needs to send an owl home, to apologise to his mum. She was going to kill him, but would understand when he explained that he’s got important curriculum work to do.  
  
(He doesn’t, and let's hope she never finds out or then she really was going to kill him.)  
  
Then, he needs to run to Hogsmeade.  
  
 _Literally_ run.

He sneaks out while everyone is busy at breakfast, hiking the couple of miles to the village in three feet of snow on an empty stomach. He skids to a halt in Gladrags Wizardwear, door bell swinging wildly, breathing like an angry troll, as he leaves puddles of slush everywhere.  
  
He then proceeds to drive the sales assistant mad for two hours.  
  
This has to be _perfect_. There's no space for fuck ups.  
  
He runs back to the Castle carrying several massive boxes under his arms, trying not to end up face first in the fresh snow. He can imagine the headlines on the Daily Prophet: _"Muggle-born student found frozen solid with his shopping on the Hogsmeade path”_.  
  
What an undignified way to die.  
  
He writes a hasty note and goes searching for Meryl.  
  
He finds her in the fountain courtyard on her way back from the last practice of this term, dusting snow from her quidditch uniform.  
  
To say she is super confused would be an understatement.  
  
She squints at him suspiciously, tapping her foot on the stone floor, arms crossed, head tilted to the side.  
  
She asks a lot of questions, with that lilting voice that always makes her sound like she’s asking a question anyway. He gets it; she's _very_ protective, and he does have a somewhat bad reputation as a trouble-maker, but this is a _serious_ matter and there is _no time_.  
  
"No Mer, for real. I swear to god, it's not Stink Pellets, what am I, eleven?? Just...just make sure she finds these by her bed with her other presents before you leave to catch the train, OK? I **know** it's the 5th year dormitory and I **know** it's a big favour, but I'm your friend Meryl, and she's your friend and ** _it’s Christmas_**. Have a heart..."  
  
More squinting at him and more tapping with her tiny foot on the floor follows.  
  
 _"OK. Do you want me to beg?"_  
  
 _"Hmm, that **would** be nice..."_  
  
 _"Fine. I will beg. I BEG YOU, OH, MERYL THE MAGNIFICENT. YOU ARE THE BEST SEEKER THAT EVER DID LIVE."_  
  
He is bellowing at the top of his voice, gesticulating wildly. A few students stop and stare, then shuffle along when they realise it's just _that Moir boy_ being silly again, what else is new?  
  
Meryl raises a dainty hand and flicks her open palm towards the sky a couple of times, signalling for him to keep going.  
  
He'd have to step it up a notch if he really wanted this favour.  
  
 _"Not enough? Jesus...OK, I will do anything you want; I will clean your quidditch gear for a month, no. wait, **two** months, and I swear I will never ask for anything **ever** again ! I SWEAR, OH, BEAUTIFUL, WISE, AND BRILLIANT QUIDDITCH GODDESS, I WILL NEVER ASK ANYTHING OF YOU EVER AGA-"_  
  
 _"OK, give me the boxes."_  
  
 _"...Pardon me?"_  
  
 _"The boxes, Moir. I'll do it. You just called me a Quidditch Goddess without even flinching; this is obviously a matter of life or death. Leave it to me.”_  
  
 _"Ah. OK. Er...thanks? You're a pal, Mer. Seriously. Thank you."_  
  
But she's already on her way to the dungeons, boxes clutched under one arm, hand in the air waving him off dismissively. She yells at him over her shoulder.  
  
 _"Don’t make me regret this, Scotty Boy! If Tessa doesn't kill you, **I will**."_  
  
He grins at her retreating back and runs back to the tower.  
  
Tessa’s at the library all day, skipping dinner altogether, devouring the last of her Chocolate Frogs instead.  
  
She finds it difficult to admit, but she's upset.  
  
She's upset and disappointed. It's ridiculous, really, it's only two weeks. She can manage on her own for one holiday.

Right?  
  
Back in the empty Slytherin common room, she is too restless to sleep. Opening her books on the mahogany table by the stone fireplace, she buries herself in a tall backed, overstuffed armchair; determined to make use of all this extra time.  
  
Her nervous energy is completely fogging her mind.  
  
She should have said yes. She should have gone home with him.  
  
Why did she get all flustered all of a sudden? _It was just Scott, for heaven's sake!_  
  
Two hours after she settled down at the table, she is still staring at the same page of _‘Magical Draft and Potions'_.   
  
She sighs. _Fine, I give up._

Her room is empty and silent: her four roommates probably sleeping in their beds back at home by now, wherever that is.  
  
She throws her head back, staring at the dark ceiling, and huffs a heavy breath.

When she draws open the heavy velvet green curtains to prepare for bed, she finds two big white boxes sitting on her bed covers. She looks puzzled at them for a second. The gifts shouldn't appear until Christmas morning, and that's a week away.  
  
There's a note on top of the smaller box, and when she unfolds the yellowing parchment she reads, _"Come to the Great Hall at ten minutes to midnight tonight. S."_  
  
 _Oh no,_  she thinks, _what has he done now?_  
  
She rips through the boxes; the big one first, and finds that for a moment, she can’t breathe.  
  
Past the layers of wrapping and string, what emerges from the white paper tissue is a floor-length black ball gown.

No, she pauses, not _black_. It’s an iridescent dark green, like the feather of a bird, like the wings of a scarab. A sleeveless sweetheart neckline, with layers upon layers of tulle ruffles on the full skirt and a black sash at the waist.  
  
The smaller box reveals a pair of black platform stilettos; the sole green and there’s a silver snake coiled around the heel.  
  
She’s in shock for five solid minutes.

Then she springs into action.

She wears everything, registering vaguely how everything just fits just _so_.  
  
 _(How on earth is everything fitting so well? Somebody has to have been paying attention. Very close attention.)_

She knows her hair is probably a mess, but she can't do much more than give it a quick brush. There’s just _no time_ to do any damage control so her tumbling dark curls will have to do.

She finds those emerald earrings that belonged to her grandmother and she's _off_.  
  
She runs like a madwoman up the dungeon stairs, grappling with the full skirt and the million layers, and _dammit, did Cinderella have all these problems too?_  
  
There’s not a soul in sight. The castle is silent and dark, candle light and torches her only guide in the gloomy corridors. Her heels make a muffled clicking sound on the stone floor, echoing as the sound snaps against the walls.  
  
This is all too absurd, she start rationalizing. Surely he organised an impromptu party in the Hall for the kids that didn’t go home. Surely this wasn’t just for her.

 _Typical Scott,_ she thinks. So selfless and caring and, above all, can’t be left alone for too long, especially not on _Christmas_.  
  
The portraits whisper and nudge each other awake, following her from frame to frame all the way to the Great Hall, where they all gather in Sir Wulfric Pepperidge’s impressive portrait.  
  
(Sir Wulfric is less than ecstatic to have his frame invaded by all the portraits of the ground floor, crowding him as they mutter excitedly, but he is not beyond a good piece of gossip.)  
  
She tries to ignore them.  
  
She feels like a _fool_.

Finally, in front of the Great Hall, she finds the massive doors ajar; a warm glow cutting the darkness of the corridor.

She pokes her head in and once again, her breath is taken away.

The Hall is all decked out for the Yuletide.  
  
Giant decorated trees are in every corner. Blinking, flickering candles hovering above her head. Holly and mistletoes and fairy lights ( _real_ fairies, mind you) cover the walls.

It must be snowing outside as there are fat, fluffy snowflakes coming down from the enchanted roof.

Blazing fires in the fireplaces cast a golden light on the stone floor. The House tables have been removed after dinner.  
  
And in the middle of the room there’s Scott, wearing a crisp new formal robe and shiny new shoes.  
  
 _Crazy boy_ , she thinks. _This must have cost him all the money he had._

He’s fiddling with his cuffs, with his messy hair, with his bow tie, and he almost doesn’t see her.  
  
Until he does.  
  
And when he does; he stills and then grins his Scott grin.  
  
She can’t help grin right back at him, and suddenly she’s standing in front of him and she can’t even remember moving. In her heels she's almost as tall as him.  
  
 _"You are here.”_ she says, breathlessly.  _“You didn't go home."_  
  
She slaps herself mentally. What a moronic thing to say.  
  
What is _wrong_ with her?

This is _Scott_ ; just _Scotty_. Why is her heart in her throat and why is her skin breaking into goosebumps and _why_ can't she remember how to _breathe, damn it?_  
  
There’s no sound other than the crackling fires; there’s no one else but them. Not even the House ghosts are around.  
  
He just stammers for a second.  
  
 _“Y-you look...you look…”_  
  
She will never know what she looks like. She can guess, though, if she managed to render Scott Moir speechless.  
  
 _“Do...do you remember how we waltz on the ice?”_ he asks, almost shyly.  
  
She nods without saying a word and he just takes her hand and they waltz; gown rustling, heels tapping a gentle rhythm on the flagstones.  
  
They manage a full lap of the Hall before they are back at their starting point in the middle of the room.

They are not waltzing anymore.

They stop, breathless and flushed, eyes glinting in the soft light, facing each other, holding hands.

She looks up at him in wonder from under her dark lashes, a small smile on her pink lips.

She's not 100% sure she's not dreaming this.  
  
He seems to have reached a decision, by the way he looks down at her, by the way his whole face relaxes while he closes his eyes and just touches his forehead to hers.  
  
He lays her right hand on his heart, fingers laced, his temple on her hairline, left hand resting lightly on her spine. He breathes her in, heart booming in his chest.  
  
Tessa keeps him close, left hand at the small of his back, eyes shut, swaying on the spot to music only they can hear.  
  
All they can hear is the rustling of her gown and their breathing and the fires popping and sizzling.  
  
They shuffle on the floor for a small eternity or a couple of minutes, trying to regain control of their hammering hearts, until Scott mumbles _"I know it's not what you wanted, but I'm glad it's just us, T."_  
  
That's where she stops. That's where draws her head back and she looks sharply up at him. That's where he sees her eyes are swimming in unshed tears and he has never, _ever_ seen her cry.  
  
Not _once_.

Not when she was a kid and they would tumble on the ice. Not when she is drowning in books getting ready for her exams. Not last year when she was thrown off her broom by a vicious Ravenclaw beater who couldn't spot the difference between a Bludger and Tessa's head, _and boy that was a nasty fall! She broke two ribs, for god's sake and not a tear, not one singl-_  
  
And that's where she's kissing him.  
  
His thoughts derail.

His mind goes blank and his heart sputters to a halt. All the air in his lungs seems to disappear.  
  
He crushes her to him, impossibly close; hand buried in her hair.  
  
He has to stop: he has to breathe and he has to ask her _what's happening?_ , and _is this OK?_ , and _am I doing this right?_ , and _can I keep going until the Sun dies and it devours the galaxy and everything in it, I mean, you wouldn't **mind** , would you?_  
  
All the questions die on his open lips the moment he looks at her, her face between the palms of his hands, her eyelids reluctantly blinking open.  
She is glowing, beaming at him, cheeks tear-stained, eyes alight.

She _giggles_.  
  
He gapes at her, and she giggles again, tilting her head to the side as if to ask him, _Yes? Is something the matter?_  
  
 _Nothing,_ he thinks as he leans down to kiss her again. The taste of her mouth is already achingly familiar; already addictive.  
  
 _Absolutely nothing is the matter._


	3. Chapter 3

He stands in the middle of the main street that leads from the castle to Hogsmeade, just in front of the first houses of the village, snow up to his knees.

It’s Valentine weekend and it’s bloody cold.

He can’t decide what to do with his arms.

If he crosses them on his chest with his big coat he looks like the genie from that cartoon.

No, not on his hips for god’s sake he looks like bloody Superman.

In his pockets he’s too James Dean, _I feel like a tool oh my god._

The students arrive as a noisy, buzzing wave that crashes against him. He stands still in the middle of the road, the great babbling wave parts around him, side-eyeing him, murmuring _‘Wait I swear that’s Moir, the one that plays in the Falmouth Falcons!’_

It’s all terribly annoying.

And then—and then... _there she is_.

She’s wearing her ‘expensive’ grey coat, her ‘expensive’ emerald scarf, her ‘expensive’ leather booths...and _his_ sweatshirt; the grey Falcons one, with the hood and the white bird silhouette on the chest. She stops dead in her tracks, clutching a big book to her.

He laughs under his breath. Of _course_ she would come to Hogsmeade to study.

The wave of chattering students tries to avoid them, passes them by, and eventually trickles down to a few slow strollers.

They are now alone in the street, standing still in the snow, no more than twenty feet apart.

When he was drafted at the end of last summer, they were both on the same page. It was a great opportunity, a great adventure, and he could get his NEWTs later. The school was going nowhere, but to play Quidditch professionally, well, he _had_ to try.

She understood. She _encouraged_ him. She told him she would wait.

She did.

They spent two amazing weeks together. They even told their parents they were dating and no one was murdered, no projectiles decorative vases were lobbed at his head and no Unforgivable Curses were cast.

Then she returned to school for her 6th year; _alone_.

He felt terrible.

She reassured him that she was okay, that she was doing fine with her constant and frequent owls.

In return, to perhaps apologize time and time again for his absence, he would send her small presents; things like team jerseys or _the hoodie she is wearing now._  
  
But he promised, he _promised_ he would visit.

Admittedly he was vague on the details, but he _promised_ and that was what mattered.

He grins...then his smile falters.

She doesn’t seem particularly surprised. Her face belies no reaction; she just _looks_ at him.

He's beginning to think this was a terrible mistake when she starts walking towards him, unhurriedly, feet crunching in the packed snow, until she’s standing right in front of him.

He’s so tall now she has to look sharply up at him to look in his eyes. She is searching his face like she lost something important in it, once, a long time ago.  
  
He can count the faint freckles across her nose; there are snowflakes in her hair.

He starts blabbering.

He _knows_ he’s blabbering. Normally, she's the one that starts gibbering endless streams of words when she's nervous.

This time it's his turn.

It’s like seeing a Bludger about to impact with your face at top speed and knowing you’re not going to avoid it in time. It’s _awful_.

_Hi, sorry I didn’t warn you; I wanted it to be a surprise? I didn’t know if you were coming or not as I know you’re busy, but you seemed so sad in your last letter I couldn’t stand it and I thought, hey, I don’t know, maybe I could make you smile. If only just for one day, just an afternoon...I mean, if you’d like, of course, maybe a hot chocolate? Unless you really have to study, I mean, I could just sit quietly while you revise, I know I fidget but I can tr-_

He stops talking because she just closes her eyes and drops her forehead on his chest. He almost takes a step back, she hit him so hard, with all her weight, with all her body slamming into him.

What’s _happening_?

He panics.

And he knows what happens when he panics; he starts blabbering again, straight into her hairline.

_I didn’t even bring you any presents! I’ve been so busy with the training and the games and **more** training, ugh, you wouldn’t **believe** how **hard** the training is; you remember when we used to skate for hours on Sundays and we were so sore afterwards? Well, that’s **nothing** compared to this, I mean, some days I can’t even move my legs. I walk like that armour on the third floor that used to chase us last yea-_

He has to shut up again, because she tilts her head upwards, going on her tiptoes, and she’s kissing him, blindly.

She lands on his lips by pure instinct.

He’s stock still for a second, his eyes involuntarily closing.

It’s hot all of a sudden, like _burning_ hot, all over him, and he’s pretty sure there’s steam coming out of his ears.

Her arms go around his sides, up his back, holding him close. She’s grasping at his coat, looking for purchase, looking for leverage.

Her book digs in his shoulder blade, but he doesn’t care because she’s _laughing_.

She’s crying and she’s laughing and she’s kissing him as they bump noses, shuffling a couple of clumsy steps to the side like drunken fools.

He holds her head in his hands. Her cheeks are so cold, but her breath is so warm and familiar.

She’s saying something, straight into his mouth. He can’t focus for a second but then he realises she’s saying his _name_ , she’s saying _‘Scott...my Scott...’_ and he thinks _yes, I am_ , and _yes, I’m so screwed_ , and _yes, this is the greatest thing that ever happened to me._


	4. Chapter 4

It's bright in the room, _too_ bright, he thinks as he blinks in the dusty light. It must be noon already.

Dammit.

He'd assured her parents they'd be fine. Oh, _god_ , he's gonna let Tessa starve to death and both _his_ parents and _her_ parents are going to skin him alive.

He prepared the spare room for her, made the bed; clean sheets and everything. He made popcorn and hot chocolate last night when they came to his flat after he picked her up at the station, straight from school; trunks and all.  
They chatted and made out and chatted some more, while outside it rained cats and dogs. They’d barely registered the event, to be honest. He managed to pry himself away from her long enough to collect himself and say goodnight.

He had this discussion with Charlie ( _'You're not asking advice on sex, are y—OH, GOD YOU ARE MATE THAT'S WONDERFUL! THE LITTLE MOIR BOY IS ALL GROWN UP, I AM SO PROUD! HERE LET ME HUG YOU YA LITTLE BUGGER! BUTTERBEER FOR EVERYONE, MOIR IS ABOUT TO BECOME A MAN!'_ ). As the older boy explained it to him, she's 17, and he knows, in the wizarding world, that she's an adult, and she's free to make her own choices. All he needs to do is ask. Easy peasy.

What Charlie doesn't understand is that her parents are scary, and her two brothers are _massive_ and he really, _really_ doesn't want to be skinned alive. They know he's dating her and they trust him to take care of their little girl.

Oh, _god_. He's a monster.

It's hot, the storm last night left a hazy sky and a sticky mugginess. The air is warm and thick; he can see the window next to the bed is open and the fluttering white curtains do nothing to keep the heat and the sun out. The duvet is heavy around his legs as he tries to shift them and find a cool spot.

But what he bumps into is definitely not duvet. He'd swear it's a bony knee. He's sprawled belly up, so he turns his head slowly to his left, to the empty half of his queen size bed. Except it's not empty, oh, no, it's most certainly _not_ empty. It's rather full of Tessa. Who he was pretty sure should be in the bed he made for her in the room next to his.

The door behind her is open in the dark apartment.

Nothing moves, the only sound is those damn birds outside his window, the rustling of the curtain, and two people breathing.

He blinks again.

Nope. She _is_ here. In an apple green t-shirt ( _his_ t-shirt, the one with the v-neck. He didn't give this one to her…the rascal _took it from his drawer_ ) and what looks like low, very low rise black boy cut knickers. The rest of her disappears under the duvet, where he has already met her concealed knee. She's on her right side, facing him, bent arm under his spare pillow, but she's looking down, chin tucked into her neck, so he can only see the top of her dark head, long wavy hair sprawled behind her. One leg extended, the other bent at the knee; her profile dips at the waist and raises up again at the hips, languid and unstudied.

He swallows. Everything she does is graceful. He learned that a long time ago.  
He knows she's not asleep, she's watching her own left hand play with the cotton of the duvet cover by her bent knee. He rolls on his left side, mirroring her position, one arm under his head, that's when she looks up and sees that he's awake.

She smiles, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. Her eyes are alight in the sunny room, a soft and liquid jade green. The way she's smiling at him, shyly and cheekily, exactly like someone caught at something she shouldn't be doing, but really wanted to do.

He's suddenly very, very awake.

They watch each other breathe for a geologic era. They are doing that weird thing again. That thing where he'd swear he's having a conversation with her, but no one has said a word.

He can tell what she's thinking. She _planned_ this. She has been thinking about this precise moment for a quite some time, he'd guess. He can see it in the glint of her eyes and the curve of her smirk and the tilt of her head.

She's braver than he is, that's for sure.

He moves his right arm towards her, in a lazy movement, slow and sloppy, like his limb is made of lead. His hand falls short of her own; she watches as his fingers land accidentally-on-purpose on hers, brushing against her knuckles. Her eyes flicker from their barely touching hands to his eyes, her eyelashes impossibly long and her eyelids heavy.

She moves then, languorous and liquid, shuffling towards him. First her shoulders, using the arm under the pillow as leverage, then her spine, then her hips, then her legs. Miles of untouchable no man's land crossed in less than three seconds; quick and sinuous like the snakes she belongs to.

No. Not like a snake; like a cat. The way she smiles with her lips closed, the corners of her mouth turned upwards. The way she rubs against him, burrows into him, their heads on the same pillow now. Face hidden in his neck, one hand against his heart on his naked chest, her left arm sneaks around him, hand hanging loosely from his right hip, wrist resting on his side, brushing the elastic band of his black boxers with tickling fingers.

It's a million degrees and his heart is galloping and he doesn't know what to do with his right arm so he curls it around her back. The v-neck of her ( _his!_ ) too big shirt is riding down to expose a pale shoulder; his vision is narrowed down to that freckled expanse of skin. She breathes against his jugular, and his mind is racing. _Oh, god, I hope I don't smell. I probably smell. Do I smell? Is my breath lethal—please let it not be lethal, I really cannot afford bad breath this morning._

Her hair smells amazing and her neck smells amazing and oh, _god_ , she is kissing his collarbone and he can't think anymore.

He tries to shift back, discretely push away his hips from her before it's too late, but she doesn't let him. It's way way waaay too late; she has an iron grip on the small of his back, hand sprawled against his spine. She realigns her hips to his, presses firmly and doesn't let go.

What's _happening_?

(He thinks this a lot when she's involved).

His heart is about to explode; he's sure this is how he's going to die, with Tessa smiling against his Adam's apple. He can feel the shape of her lips and the sharpness of her perfect white teeth, nibbling the skin under his chin, chest to chest, legs intertwined like the wreckage of an ancient building. She's biting his earlobe ( _Jesus, Lord help him_ ) and he's fighting the urge to leap out of the open window when her hand starts wandering south of his stomach.

He's gone completely.

There's a lot of kissing. There's a lot of sighing. There's a lot of not knowing where to bloody put that arm, that leg, that hand; did he always have this many limbs? He's sure there's some extra ones getting in the way.

There's a lot of shifting and adjusting and rustling and moving around in the warm sheets. He gets hit in the face by that damn apple green t-shirt when it comes off. He does not mind.

There's a lot of smooth, soft skin; so soft, he can't seem to stop touching. She does not seem to mind.

There are drops of perspiration on her collarbone and he gets fixated on them. He murmurs the old spell, _glacius_ , familiar like an old friend, and the droplets freeze on her skin like perfect tiny round ice cubes. She squeals at the cold, covers her eyes with both hands, biting her lips, laughter bubbling out of her. He stares at the little transparent spheres as they roll down her chest and melt again by the time they reach her navel. He tries to see how far down her body he can make them go.

She giggles a lot. He thinks he should be almost offended. She tends to laugh at him a lot.

His brows furrow, his back on the mattress as he looks up at her, his brain turning to mush ( _When did she get up there? She weighs nothing. Her hair tickles and it's a great view from down here_ ) but she doesn't seem to be laughing _at him_ , she seems just..happy?

He was told horrific stories, late at night in the Gryffindor common room, from hyperbolic boisterous older boys. Stories about tears and pain and blood and loud screams and discomfort and slaughter and mayhem. Dear god, it sounded _awful_. It sounded like a battle.

But this is _nothing_ like a battle. It's quiet. It's golden light and flying motes of dust. It's sweaty. It's so, so weird, and so so _not_ weird. He's still looking in the same green eyes he knows so well. No one told him about the softness, or about the laughter or about this joy in his chest that threatens to spill out every time she sighs in his ear. And the taste. No one told him about the taste.

He's gripping for dear life; gripping her hips, her hair, her thighs. Is he gripping too hard? Is she going to bruise?

But if he doesn't, he'll float away. If he doesn't, he'll burst.

If he doesn't, the universe is going to end.

She's smiling and giggling until she isn't anymore. There's no more laughing. There's a lot of clutching and rolling around and grasping and scratching of nails against skin. A lot of impossible sounds from her red-kissed mouth, open against his temple, gulping down air, biting her own shallow gasps down, dead grip in his hair.

He wants to look; he wants to remember, but it's too much, just too much, and there's the ominous roar of his blood in his ears like the sea, rushing in his veins, while she holds him, holds him together. Catches him as he falls apart like she has been waiting all her life, with her open arms, with her open heart.

A million years pass. Galaxies collide and disintegrate and disappear. Glaciers melt. Humanity is certainly extinct by the time he finds the strength to open his eyes.

Blood is still rushing in his ears. He feels like he was supposed to be here ages ago and he has only now caught up, and the universe is waiting for him, tapping its watch and _‘What time do you call this young man?’_

His bones are made of slush, his mouth is a sahara and he can barely lift his head to rest his forehead against hers, trying not to stab her with his nose. Her hair is a dark mess around her; she's catching her breath, looking up at him, and that causes her to cross her eyes at him.

She giggles. It's the best sound he ever heard.

He can't help it, he releases his breath with a puff of air on her cheek and starts laughing like a maniac. Laughing so much he can't make a sound, he can't even _breathe_. His shoulders shake and he collapses again.

They are both laughing like fools.

He thinks he's squashing her so he shifts enough off her, back to his side. Even if they are both sweaty, he manages to move about two millimetres. He can't bear more distance than that.

She follows with her head, like she can't stop looking at him; at his half-lidded eyes, at his quite probably crazy hair. He still has half his torso and legs on her, her right shoulder is kinda digging a hole in his sternum, and she's running her fingers on his arm slung across her chest. He can feel the tickle even if from this angle, squashed with his face on her pillow, his mouth all lax and bent out of shape, he can't really see much.

Just her face. Her nose. Her freckles. The perfect arches of her eyebrows. He's still sort of poking her in the eye with his stupid nose. She's looking at him through her heavy lashes, slowly flicking from his eyes to his mouth and back. She's smiling like a happy cat again, and he wants to kiss the upturned corner of her mouth, but he literally can't move, _oh, my god, he is never going to move again_.

She takes a deep breath, sucks all of the rooms air into her lungs, and dead serious, declares: _“I'm so hungry right now I could eat a whole cow.”_

She's glowing gold in the early afternoon light; her face is so serious that she's almost pouting.

He composes his face a little bit, lifts his head slightly, caught by surprise. He blinks dumbly at her, once, twice.

This was not a battle, but if it was? He lost. He lost so, _so_ spectacularly.

He never wants to win.

He barks a laugh, drops his head down again, takes as deep a breath as he can take, and declares: _“I love you.”_

Everything is still. The earth has stopped turning. The birds outside are silent. He holds his breath thinking, _oh, shit._

She grins. She can't stop grinning.

She grins like that all summer.

She grins like that when they discuss (over a very messy breakfast in bed) the possibility of him going back to school to get his NEWTs. She grins like that when he hints, well, sorta implies that it would be entirely OK, if she wants to, of course, for her to move her stuff into his place. _Only if she wants to, of course!_

She grins like that when they meet at Platform 9 ¾ on September 1st and she sees him emerge from the smoke of the red locomotive with his trunks and his trolley; waiting for her before boarding. Younger girls and Seventh Years whispering and hovering around him like he's a bloody may pole, but he's a head taller than everyone so he looks for her above the sea of chattering young witches, completely oblivious.

She grins when she says she loves him, which is always, every day. She asks him if she's saying it too many times, and he tells her, _“If you ever stop I'm going to grow my hair out like Charlie and I'm going to let Meryl braid it. I'm going to go to Myrtle's bathroom and I'll just let her have her wicked way with me. I will let the Fat Lady sing all the Weird Sisters discography. I'll take not one, but two extra classes of History of Magic, then I-”_

She grins when she interrupts him with a scandalised _“Scott!”_ and agrees that she'll have to keep saying she loves him constantly. She can't very well let him do all these awful things. I mean, everything, but not Charlie's hair...

She grins like that through her Seventh Year, even through their endless, gruelling exams; never faltering, holding his hand, determined and fearless.

He doesn't think she has stopped grinning like that ever since that hot, summer day, and he'll be damned if he ever lets her.


	5. Chapter 5

_THUD._

_THUD._

_THUD._

Shoulder slumped forward. Spine bent. He keeps banging his forehead on the table. Not forcefully; he puts _just_ enough distance between his head and the scratched mahogany so that gravity can pull him down again and again.

_THUD._

_THUD._  
  
 _THUD._   
  
_"Scott.”_ She's still pointing to the _‘Guide to Advanced Transfiguration’_ , stabbing at the passage she wants him to really understand with her finger. They've been at this for 2 hours.

_The same paragraph._

Two hours alone in an empty classroom on a sunny June day, buried completely in books. Tessa had set an _‘Absolutely No Snogging’_ rule firmly in place and was sitting prim and proper next to him in a big chair. Nothing they revised so far had left any impression in his mushy brain.   
  
It's not his fault. She does smell exceptionally good; what even is that, _coconut?_

He's about to lose it.

He'll never pass, let alone with an _Exceeds Expectations_. Coming back to school has been a terrible, _terrible_ idea.   
  
_THUD._  
  
 _THUD._  
  
 _THUD._  
  
 _"Scott? Come on, one more time. We'll do it together."_  
  
 _THUD._  
  
 _THUD._  
  
 _THUD._  
  
 _"Oh, god, **Scott**."_  
  
 _THUD._  
  
 _THUD._  
  
 ** _SLAP._**  
  
Tessa interrupts his self-punishment with an open hand on his forehead, preventing him from hitting the hard surface again. She cups his skull and tries to pull him back up to a more dignified position.

In retaliation, he goes completely limp against her hand.

She struggles to catch his head; to keep him upright while he's getting heavier and heavier in her arms, sliding from his chair.

He knows he's insufferable sometimes. She should be mad at him, for all the time they are wasting on this one spell he can't master. Time they should use to revise all the other subjects they are neglecting. They could be out in the sun, enjoying their last days at school. They could be _snogging_. She _should_ be mad at him.  
  
And yet, she can't stop giggling.

They grapple for a minute; she's grunting with the effort and laughing under her breath. Trying to get a good hold on his shoulders, under his arms, pulling his grey uniform this way and that. Papers and parchments and quills scatter everywhere in the wake of their struggle.  
  
 _"Come on ,Scotty don't be like that, oh **god** , you're heavy... **Scott!** "._  
  
He slumps half on her, half on the table, eyes closed; softly moaning like he's about to die, his head lolling back and forth, and he's _smirking_. Yes, yes. He knows. He's being a jackass.   
Wrestling with his tall frame and the stupid chair's armrests in the way, she grabs his head in both hands and sort of cradles him against her neck and face.

That catches his attention. His whole body straightens up and his arms slide around her waist. He starts pulling her towards him, in his lap. He's dragging her out her chair, wood scraping on the stone floor, eliciting a squawk from Tessa. He aims straight for her lips, but she resists, pulling herself to her feet but not out of his grasp.  
  
 _"Ah-a! **Absolutely No Snogging** rule, remember?"_  
  
 _"I **hate** that rule."_  
  
 _"Come on, get up, Scott. **Stop it**. Listen to me; stand up."_  
  
 _"Mmh, Tessaa.."_  
  
 _"Do it for me, baby, come on, **up**."_  
  
His heart does a somersault.   
  
She called him _baby_. He can't deny her anything if she calls him _that_. He's pretty sure he'd throw himself in front of a charging centaur if she asked and added _'baby'_ at the end of her request.   
  
All of a sudden, he complies. He's standing on his own two feet, holding both her hands in his, looking down at her. She recovers from the surprise long enough to catch his expression. He's trying to smile at her, but he feels defeated. Exhausted. He can tell she saw it by the way her face goes still and her eyes search his eyes.

She squeezes his hands and drags him away from the table, moving the heavy chairs out of the way. She makes him stand in front of her, in a shaft of light coming from one of the high windows overlooking the courtyard, dusty motes dancing mid air.  
  
 _"Come stand here with me for a moment."_  
  
 _"Tessaaaaaa.."_  
  
 _"Shush, it's OK, just come here. Trust me, just...come here. Close your eyes."_  
  
He narrows his eyes at her for a second, then sighs heavily and obeys her command. He's tired and discouraged; he doesn't have the strength to argue with her.  
  
The next step is to become sullen and quiet and to shut everything out. He doesn't want to do that to her.  
  
She gently slides her hand up his right arm, past his elbow, up his bicep, around his shoulder, and up to his neck to tangle in his hair. The other goes past his waist and up his spine, lying on his shoulder blade. He's still as a rock, eyes still closed, head bowed down towards the vague direction of her face.  
  
Then she's hugging him.

She doesn't go on her tiptoes; her feet are both planted on the flat stones of the classroom floor. Her arm rests comfortably on his shoulder, her cheek against his cheek, her body pressed firmly against his, hips to chest.

He can feel her push against him every time she inhales and exhales, but he doesn't utter a word. Her breath is warm against his ear, her eyes closed. His arms tightens around her, hands resting between her shoulder blades. He can feel the muscles of her back under her uniform with his fingertips.  
  
 _"Scott. It's OK. I'm here. Breathe with me."_  
  
He hears her whisper, mouth against the shell of his ear, and he remembers now.  
  
He remembers doing this with her when he was going through his OWLs and he freaked out the night before the exams. Like _majorly_ freaked out. He made Charlie cry he was so mean.  
  
(Of course the official version is 'dust from the old books' and he will go to his grave swearing to that version of the facts. You don't make your bro cry and then tell the tale around the school. Not his style.)  
  
He got frustrated and nervous and he lashed out like an idiot, and she was fearless in approaching him and fearless in dragging him away from the staring eyes of the other students in the library. Fearless in calling him on his bullshit.

He remembers how she breathed with him behind the dark corridor of the Restricted Section. He was worried about Transfiguration that time as well. That stupid Vanishing Spell. He still has nightmares about it.   
  
But that was different.  
  
He was younger. She was younger. They were just _kids_.  
  
Yes; they had that thing where he could look at her across the tables at dinner and their eyes would meet across the crowded Hall and he would know _exactly_ what she was thinking and why.

And yes; they had that thing where they would finish each other's sentences, and were oblivious to everything and everyone if the other was around.

And yes, she would say, _"Do you think—"_ and he would say, _"Yes, absolutely!"_ and it would frustrate Meryl to no end because, _"No one actually said anything? Like, you guys? You realize that you didn't actually ask a question and no one knows what you're talking about? Right? Guys?"_ and they would just shrug because it was so _clear_ to them.

And yes; the passing year 7 girls would coo at them, going on and on about how cute they were, how inseparable they were and how charming it was that he would protect her and shield her from the wild stampede of year 4s coming out of Quidditch practice, or carry her books, or wait for her at the top of the dungeon staircase, and oh, what a long friendship they had, and _I wonder if they were promised in the crib like in that fairytale_ , and he would think _promised? Promised to do **what**?_ while they giggled past, patting Tessa on the head like a puppy.  
  
But he never resented her, never resented what they had, whatever that was. Not once. It was his duty to protect her, and if he didn't, who would?

She was fearless but too gentle, too trusting, too kind.   
  
That afternoon in the Library she had just turned fourteen.  
  
He didn’t think of her _that_ way. She was his friend.

She was _Tessa_ and she was so scrawny that the tips of his middle fingers would touch if he lifted her by the waist. She was the shy kid who didn't talk a lot, so you often missed that she was talking at all. She was the little green-eyed girl with the dainty giggle and the booming belly laugh; the girl who liked learning more than anything and who knew _so_ much more than him about Transfiguration it was frankly embarrassing.

She was the girl who was kind to him.  
  
It was different then.

He wasn't aware of every single curve and angle of her body like he is now.

He wasn't constantly distracted by the intoxicating smell of her hair like he is now.  
  
He wasn't pushed to madness by the whisper of her breath in his ear like he is now.

She _definitely_ wasn't scrawny anymore. She is slender and toned; he knew how his hands would fit on her waist and her well defined stomach. He knew the angle her hip bones made and the dip of her clavicles.   
  
She uses her soft voice with him when she feels like saying something important, and he listens; he listens _carefully_ , looking at her lips move, not to miss a single word.

She still has the dainty giggle and that booming belly laugh, only now he knows how to trigger both, and he knows what it feels like when he has his head pressed against her naked rib-cage and he can feel her shake breathlessly with it.

The laugh _he_ caused.  
  
She still loves to learn and she still knows _so_ much more than him about Transfiguration, about all the subjects, about everything in this world and the Muggle world and _life_ , the Universe and everything, it's still embarrassing.

He's a dick sometimes, and he knows it, but she's still kind to him. And she's fearless for the both of them.

Oh, god. He's got it so bad.   
  
He slows down his breathing to match hers, deep and unhurried, in and out. His chest rises and falls with each intake of air, his exhale is lost in the the column of her white throat. He rubs his hands up and down her spine; she's small but solid within the circle of his arms. For a moment there's nothing but the smell of her skin, her hair tickling his face, the fabric of her dark grey cardigan, and the sound of their breathing in the empty room.  
  
Slowly, she pulls back a few inches, enough to look him in the eyes. She keeps her forehead pressed against his and her lips curved in a slight smile, lowering her hand to rest   
delicately on his chest; her fingertips playing with his red and gold crumpled tie. Her left hand finds his, fingers slotting together like magnets.  
  
 _"Hi."_  
  
 _"Hey, T."_  
  
 _"Are you with me?"_  
  
 _"Yeah."_  
  
 _"Good. You and me. Together, right?"_  
  
She tilts her head sideways, looking up at him, pretty lips curving upwards in a slight grin, eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks. She is soothing him like one would calm down a skittish hippogriff, ready to bolt any second and maul you with its talons.   
  
He can't remember why he was so worried. All he can think about is that wherever he ends up, whatever is in store for him, she has to be a part of it.

She is a part of _him_. He can't imagine accomplishing anything of significance in his life without this girl next to him, holding his hand, guiding him out of the darkness, as if she could see the path bright and clear, never hesitating. Never faltering.

He knows he can do it. Whatever 'it' is. He can do it; she's right here, her warm hand in his.   
  
He nods once. Twice.   
  
_"Good. That's good. Now here's what we're going to do; we're going to finish here quickly. It won't take long; you almost got it, and then we're going to dump everything and take advantage of the few hours of sun we've got left. I hear the lake calling my name and I seem to recall that, while your Vanishing Spell is a bit shaky, your Ice Spell is **outstanding**."_  
  
He grins at that and bumps his forehead with hers again, squeezing her tight against him.

He's not going to let go.

He's not going to fuck this up.

He's going to hold on for as long as she's going to to let him hold her hand.   
  
He can do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it kids, I hope you enjoyed it. That was all I wanted to write, but send me prompts and your AUs if you want to see more, never say never!


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